 | The Legend of St. Loy |  |
XXIX.
But thou! — 'tis not thy spell's controlBenumbs the frame, and clasps the soul —
Wizard! — whose ghastly eyes declare
Thou feelst superior power near,
That hath thy peerless prize bereft,
Triumphant in the glorious theft —
“Voices! but where are they who spake?”
Why dost thou fear, and quail, and quake? —
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Is scorned both by thy charms and thee —
“She's vanished — gone — but how, and where?
“She was of earthly mould, though fair,
“And could not melt away in air.” —
Thou art perplexed in thine own wiles,
Taken in thine own netted toils —
Thus the fierce Lion foams and frets,
Entangled in the snare — and threats;
Remembering not that they who spread
The pitfall which deceived his tread,
Are strangers as himself to dread;
And well his fallen power disdain,
His strength — his terrors — all, in vain!
| The Legend of St. Loy | |